Nostalgia
by Dea Liberty
Summary: A moment of reflection, of simply remember things that were no longer. Oneshot. AL SLASH.


**Title:** Nostalgia  
**Pairing:** Arthur/Lancelot  
**Rating:** PG  
**Feedback:** Everything, including constructive criticism, is very much appreciated.

He remembered a time once (long ago now) when they were without these walls and masks that keep them further apart than any physical chasm ever could, when they were young and free and optimistic, so filled with hope and pride and dreams of a future (without the tinges of red that clouded their vision).

Somehow, all those years of blood and guts and gore had stripped them of that innocence, stripped them of the comfort and companionship they used to find so easily in one another, stripped them of anything but a bitterness and anger and pain (and lies and masks and facades built to keep themselves in and all others out).

Sometimes, he missed the man he used to know (he missed the Arthur that used to smile and laugh and argue playfully with them); he missed the Arthur without the burden and guilt of every single life that had been lost, every single life that he had taken, on his shoulders.

He missed the Arthur he once shared everything with.

Each death had been like a wedge (forcing them further and further apart) and even though he rode beside Arthur like he had for the last fifteen years, he fought beside Arthur like he had for the last fifteen years, and he slept beside Arthur like he had for the last fifteen years - there was fifteen years of pain and death and suffering between them (he could have been on the other side of the world for all that they were closed to one another).

Sometimes he'd sit and watch and wonder what happened, wonder how things turned out the way they did, wonder how they could be so close and yet so far away, understand and yet never know.

He sometimes wondered what Arthur would do without him; would he grieve (feel lost and angry and alone)? Or had the distance between them become so great that he wouldn't really feel the difference (wouldn't feel the weight of Lancelot's absence by his side)?

He opened his eyes to watch Arthur sleeping a short distance away, Excalibur resting by his side, frowning even in dreams. So many burdens, so much responsibility on one person - it was enough to drive anyone onto the brink of insanity; to hold so many lives in your hands, to believe yourself to be the cause of so many deaths and so much destruction and despair.

There was a time (long ago now) when Lancelot would have been right there, right next to him, smoothing away the frown, chasing away the nightmares and thoughts and memories so that Arthur could sleep in relative peace, a comforting warmth curled by his side.

But their experiences had pulled them farther apart than they'd ever dreamt they could be pulled.

And Lancelot, now, even more than before, wondered why.

He sat up quietly, padded softly to Arthur's side and knelt next to him, hand going up to trace the lines on Arthur's forehead, thumb smoothing them away as his fingers lightly traced Arthur's features. His breath hitched when Arthur instinctively leant into the touch (relaxing almost immediately) lips curling unconsciously as he nuzzled Lancelot's hand.

So familiar.

His breath caught again when Arthur's eyes fluttered open, one hand going up to hold Lancelot's to his cheek when he made to pull away. A clear and yet guilt-ridden green gaze met his own shocked ones, and held it as Arthur turned his head slightly, pressing a small kiss to his palm (a tugging at his heart, tears forming in his eyes, lips slipping between teeth).

"I didn't mean to wake you," he whispered, eyes never leaving Arthur's even as Arthur tugged him closer gently, hesitantly; questioning, requesting.

He went willingly (more than willingly).

"I'm glad you did." His eyes fluttered shut as Arthur brushed his lips over his forehead and eyelids, cheeks and finally lips - and as Lancelot yielded control (as he always did, had done).

So familiar.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he repeated. "Go back to sleep; you need the rest."

He made to move away reluctantly (to let him rest, sleep) when he felt Arthur's arms slip around him, holding him in place, pulling him into Arthur's lap, cradling him close.

"What happened to us, Lancelot?" Arthur's voice was soft, filled with regret and pain and a dozen other emotions Lancelot couldn't really put a name to (but so soft, only a breath of a whisper, and Lancelot wasn't sure he heard it at all).

He shook his head silently, not knowing how to put the answer into words, to make it all mean what it really meant - not even sure he really knew a simple answer to it.

_The world, Arthur. Our lives._

And he looked up to find Arthur staring at him, an apology in his gaze (an apology for the distance he'd put between them) and a small plea for something, nothing and everything.

"I rest better if you're here."

And Lancelot yielded. He curled carefully around Arthur, tucking himself under Arthur's chin, feeling his sigh of contentment echoed softly by the other man as he let his eyes slip closed (listening to Arthur's reassuring heartbeat beneath his ear, felt Arthur's warmth and breath and every minute movement).

So close. And yet still so far away.

"I've always been here." _Always will be here. You just needed to (still need to) look._

He felt more than heard Arthur's breath catch and hitch slightly, felt Arthur's arms tighten around him, felt the small shower of feather light kisses and the almost frantic hands running through his hair (he savoured it, like it'd been forever - it'd really been forever).

"What would I do without you?"

"Manage." A small distance, pulling away from the familiarity (almost like love, like perfection, like resolution) because tomorrow wouldn't be like that, would it (could it)? They'd go back to strangers wearing the masks, skins and bodies of best friends.

"Lancelot…" _What happened to us?_

He shook his head again (can't - too much, too close to asking for something he didn't know how to give anymore), burrowing closer into Arthur's arms, taking what comfort and intimacy he could take from the moment.

Arthur's hand didn't cease its petting, and Lancelot's own found their way into Arthur's hair, curling around the base of his neck, playing idly with the small wisps of hair there.

"Go back to sleep," he urged quietly again (savouring the moment, remembering the feelings), pressing a small kiss to Arthur's neck and closing his own eyes, breathing Arthur in.

"Be here when I wake up." It wasn't really a command, but it wasn't a request either (somewhere between a plea and something else entirely - not knowing what else to say, how else to ask).

"If that's what you'd like."

"Lancelot…" The same old argument - the one that had driven them further and further from one another (made Arthur afraid to ask, Lancelot afraid to answer).

"That's what I'd like." _If it were up to me, I'd be here always._

It was a mere shadow of their old intimacy, something like crystal rather than stone walls (harder to break through and just as thick) but at least it was transparent - left hoping and wishing and wanting (still as far away and closed off as before) but seeing one another now, partly seeing each other's pain.

Hardly enough - more than before, but hardly enough to hold them together, bring them back to anything like they used to be (like they both wanted so badly to be to one another again).

But they'd been stripped bare of everything, exposed and hidden away.

Arthur's arms tightened around him and a whisper of "thank you" brushed from Arthur's lips to his own as Arthur sealed them together again.

It wasn't all that he wanted, but it was enough (had to be enough) and Lancelot would (have to) make do.


End file.
